Redux

I saw heat rising out the pavement today and a men walking around with their stomachs peeking out of their wifebeaters. Mmmm, summer's come again to New York. This is very much the summer I should've had last year. Not so overly self-concious or self-important, hanging fire. "There is nothing I want to do / and too much / that has to be done." That's not this summer. This summer's lovely. And fragile, because we all know summers end.

Continuing on Wad's bicycle metaphor, I went biking today (okay, I know actually doing something is not a metaphor, but let's just go with the parallelism for a bit, k?). I am all that is man. It's an activity that isn't much like me at all, and that makes me like it more. All the potholes that blemish the roads, all the tress, all the benches, it's just last summer when I first started doing this. I hate this city, that changes or stays the same and couldn't care less if I or anyone else was in it.
I like competing against the men in full-body spandex with over-wrought calf muscles in loops around the Park (capital p). They're stronger, but I'm lighter. Let's face it though, strength has a tendency to win out. Realpolitik on a summer afternoon.
Except going downhill. Because then I burn those mather-fackers.

"Hey, nice bike, but you're riding on your rims. You should find a nice young man to pump up those tires for you."
Ah, objectification, such a lovely feeling. But actually, in this case, it kinda is. I like this gentle type of sexism, by these manly men who spend hours shaving their legs and trying to lose weight.

And let's face it, I do have a very nice bike. And by bike, I mean boobs. That's a metaphor!